


How I Want To Feel Tomorrow

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Doctor/Patient, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28227636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: Drift isn't sleeping well after Delphi.Neither is Ratchet.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Comments: 63
Kudos: 213





	1. One Lesson Learned The Hard Way

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This story isn’t set in continuity with any of my other Dratchet stories. Takes place after MTMTE #5.
> 
> I wanted to explore a new idea for a first encounter and do a story centered on Drift’s point of view for a change.
> 
> I wrote this story this summer as a brain-break from COVID-19 and am releasing all four chapters over Yule/New Year's as a gift to the fandom.
> 
> Story and chapter titles from “Montreal” by Port Cities.

Drift drew air into his vents and carefully tasted the sharp aroma of disinfectant, the smoky scent of sautered metal and the crisp smell of whatever soap Ratchet favoured. The berth beneath him was soft enough, if not as luxurious as the one back in his hab. Drift’s optics were offline but he knew exactly where he was. He was in the little private recovery room off to one side of the medbay. The one next to Ratchet’s office. 

Funny, he didn’t remember exactly how he’d gotten here. That memory file probably wasn’t unique enough to stand out from the others. He’d been coming here to sneak naps so many times since the _Lost Light_ left Cybertron that they had started to blur together in his mind, forming one contented haze of safety and relaxation and just a bit of yearning. 

Because there weren’t that many places on the _Lost Light_ for Drift to go when Rodimus was busy. Drift knew from the way the other Autobots looked at him that he wasn’t welcome in the games room, or the sky lounge, or the library. He certainly didn’t get invited to anyone’s hab, besides Rodimus’s. The only reason Swerve put up with him was that his money was good. 

When Rodimus was around, Drift could forget about the fact that he wasn’t exactly popular. But when Rodimus was otherwise occupied, Drift got reminded by the dirty looks as he passed in the halls, and by the words he heard muttered behind his back. 

_The Decepticons didn’t like you either_ , Drift told himself. 

Yet the Decepticons had been different. They disliked him, sure, but they also envied him. They wanted to _be_ him, or at least have the privileges of his rank. They were scared of him in a respectful sort of way. 

Drift was willing to bet that there were plenty of Autobots here who were also scared of him, but in a different kind of way. The way that made them recoil from him. He appalled them and disgusted them by virtue of his presence. Drift couldn’t even make use of their fear. Ultra Magnus had told him in no uncertain terms that threats and violence would not be tolerated on the _Lost Light_. 

So shortly after the launch, Drift had found himself coming down here to the repair bay. 

Where Ratchet worked. 

The first time he had brought a crystal to bless the medbay with healing energies. Ratchet had snapped at him and told him the last thing he needed was more clutter inside a relatively small space. 

The harsh dismissal had hurt. 

But Ratchet hadn’t kicked him out, either. Drift had asked if he could grab a nap in this recovery room and Ratchet had said something to the effect of _knock yourself out_ , followed by a gruff _you’d better not leave a mess._

There were so many details in his memory file of that day. Drift remembered lying there in the dimness, listening to Ratchet moving around the med bay. He could feel the ache in his chest from loneliness and Ratchet’s harsh mockery of his beliefs, but there had been a warmth too. A sense of security. He hadn’t been this close to Ratchet in so long. 

As the days became weeks since the launch, Drift noticed that Ratchet, for the most part, ignored him. So he started building charms and talismans in his spare time to _gift_ to Ratchet. When Ratchet wasn’t here, Drift would hang them in different locations around the med bay, then lie down in this room and wait for the shouting and muttering that inevitably happened when Ratchet came back and found them. 

When Ratchet was here, Drift held onto his charms and spent his time instead telling Ratchet more than he’d ever wanted to know about Spectralism and the Circle of Light. He’d wait for Ratchet to snap at him before excusing himself for his nap. 

Sometimes he wished he could get Ratchet’s attention for better reasons. But his life didn’t work like that. He had to settle for the funny feeling he got in his spark when Ratchet was staring right at him during a rant. 

Just thinking about it made Drift’s cheeks flush. 

“Core temperature rising,” came a strange voice from somewhere nearby. 

Drift’s optics onlined immediately. Yes, he was in the med bay, but someone else was standing over him. First Aid. 

_Delphi._

Memories came back to him like an avalanche. Too many memory files opened at once and all of them were horrifying. Fear dumped adrenaloids into his system. 

Drift struggled to sit up and take a look at his frame. From the corner of his optic he could see diagnostic cables and a fuel drip snaking down towards his forearm. 

“Stay still,” First Aid ordered, restraining Drift with a hand on his chest. “Deep breaths. Calm down.” 

Drift didn’t want to calm down. “Don’t touch me.” First Aid’s fingers on his chest made his plating crawl. 

First Aid lifted his hand just a hair. “Promise me you’ll keep still?” 

“Yeah, whatever.” 

That was good enough for First Aid to remove his hand. 

As he settled back down, Drift caught enough of a glimpse of his body to believe that the rust infecting his frame had been halted. He saw ugly pale rings around the rust spots where his self-repair function had begun healing the damage. 

“Where’s Ratchet?” It wasn’t the question that Drift had intended to ask. _How’s Ratchet_ was what he really meant, but his sleep-addled brain hadn’t put the question together properly. That was scary. How vulnerable was he right now? 

“Ratchet is recovering nicely,” First Aid said, as though he’d psychically guessed Drift’s true inquiry. 

“I want to see him.” 

“You’ll see him soon. For now, you both need to rest.” 

Drift struggled to sit up again. First Aid sighed. “He’s sleeping in the cot in his office.” 

Drift figured that information was worth some good behaviour. “The one next door?” 

“Yes. I don’t want you waking him up,” First Aid added, as though he knew better than to forbid Drift from trying to see Ratchet. Drift decided that this new medic, though clearly not Ratchet, was pretty bright. 

“I won’t,” Drift said. He could make that promise. The last thing he wanted to do was put additional strain on Ratchet. 

Pharma had done plenty of that. 

Not just the rust virus. That had been an atrocity, but Drift was intimately familiar with atrocities and the people who committed them. It was the _other_ things that bothered Drift. Ratchet had talked about Pharma as a brilliant collague and a close friend. Pharma had talked about Ratchet in a different way altogether. 

Even back in the Dead End, Drift had heard rumours about medics. They always hooked up with their own kind, or something like that. Medics could do things with a Cybertronian frame that were both erotic and terrifying, and if you wanted to keep a medic satisfied, you not only had to be willing to do those things, you also had to either trust your partner to know what he was doing, or you had to be so addicted to the sensation that you didn’t care. 

Drift shivered. 

He knew a lot about addiction, but he didn’t know anything about craving interface and the like. He found interfacing tiresome at best. There were many occasions on which it had been far worse than tedious. 

He wanted Ratchet’s attention, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted it in _that_ way. Though he’d be willing to buy Ratchet’s attention with the usual. But if it was true that medics got bored with the usual, then what? 

Drift almost laughed at how far ahead of himself he was getting. Ratchet had never given any sign of wanting to frag him. If he had, Drift wouldn’t have had to resort to annoying the medic for fun. 

First Aid frowned. “Are you cold?” 

Drift blinked. Right, the shiver. “No. Just thinking about…Delphi.” 

“Thank you,” First Aid said. 

“Huh?” 

“For saving Ratchet. We’d all be poorer off without him.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, we would.” 


	2. We Were Holding On

Chapter Two: We Were Holding On 

Drift napped, or tried to. His mind kept replaying Delphi as variations on a theme. The variations inevitably involved some kind of delay as he dragged his body up to the roof. He lost his grip on the ladder. Pharma had locked the roof access. The DJD showed up. Endless permutations all leading to the same end: arriving on the roof too late to save Ratchet. 

Drift’s mind seemed hell-bent on imagining the worst. It was as though his brain couldn’t accept the truth that he’d made it in time. As though he would need to hear Ratchet venting in front of him to truly believe the medic was still alive. 

But First Aid had ordered him to rest. So Drift lay still, feigning recharge, listening to First Aid and Ambulon moving about on the other side of the door, or the rhythmic breathing of the other patients in the main ward. Occasionally Pipes whimpered in his sleep. 

When the other medics left, Drift would check on Ratchet. Not to disturb him. Just to…watch over him. That would be fine, right? To keep watch until Drift was tired enough to sleep again. 

To know that he hadn’t been too late. 

It seemed to take forever before First Aid and Ambulon finally left. Drift heard the medbay’s main door open, then close. He rolled over and slid lightly to his feet, then cracked open the door to the main ward. 

Drift eyed the diagnostic drone suspiciously. The machine was supposed to alert First Aid if any of the patients’ life signs exceeded its set parameters. Drift wondered if its set parameters were programmed to keep him in his own room. 

The drone flashed its optic at him but made no move to impede him. If it had signaled First Aid, the alert was silent. Perhaps it hadn’t. 

Before Drift could do anything further, another door across slid open. The door to Ratchet’s office. 

Drift watched as a familiar shadow stepped out. Their optics locked. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be on bed rest?” Ratchet snapped. 

Drift grinned. “Aren’t you?” 

“Whose medbay is this?” Ratchet moved first, closing the difference between them. “Get back in your berth before I sedate you and drop you in it.” 

“Since you asked nicely.” Drift’s spark thrilled. He took a quick glance at Ratchet’s new hands. The blue didn’t fit the rest of his frame at all. Yet Ratchet still seemed like his old self. Perhaps Delphi hadn’t changed anything between them after all. 

Drift didn’t know what to make of that thought, or the confusing feelings that came with it. 

Was he a horrible person? Was Drift afraid that Ratchet would have no time for him now that his hands were no longer failing? Did that make any sense at all? 

No, this was better. Ratchet would be in a better mood with properly functioning hands. As well, there were now three medics on board, plus Hoist. Enough people for Ratchet to take proper breaks from his job. Change didn’t have to be bad. 

Right? 

Drift headed back to his berth, and if he put a little extra sway in his step, was that so wrong? 

What was the matter with him? A moment ago he’d been relieved that nothing had changed, and yet now here he was, hoping Ratchet would do something he’d never done before. 

Drift climbed up into the berth. He snuck a glance at Ratchet, who seemed more interested in his chart than in his aft. He felt disappointed, when he should have felt relieved. 

_What’s wrong with me?_

_What am I doing?_

Drift realized that Delphi might have changed _him_ more than it had changed Ratchet. 

“This looks pretty good,” Ratchet said, finally lifting his gaze from the chart and focusing it on Drift’s frame. Annoyingly, his optics lingered on the healing wounds rather than on Drift’s pretty curves. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like you need to practice what you preach. You shouldn’t be out of bed, and you know it.” 

“Thank you, _Doctor_ ,” Ratchet said sarcastically. 

Drift indulged a sudden urge to blurt out something reckless—Rodimus’s influence, perhaps. “If you don’t want to get in your berth, you could get in mine.” 

No sooner was it out of his mouth than he wondered what he meant by it. 

Ordinarily, he’d say something like that in an attempt at reverse psychology, hoping Ratchet would get stubborn and do the opposite. 

Tonight, though? After what he’d done with the sexy walk? Did he really _want…_

Ratchet glowered. Hesitated. “Yeah, fine.” 

Too late now. Drift gulped down any qualms and moved aside, patting the berth invitingly. 

“This is for _sleeping_ ,” Ratchet said sternly. “Not whatever nonsense you’re trying to tease me with.” 

But he climbed into the berth anyway. 

Drift sat very still, trembling with an emotion he couldn’t name. Ratchet’s frame brushed against his, ever so lightly. Drift could feel him radiating warmth. He didn’t know if it was appropriate for him to press against that warmth. Would that count as _nonsense_? 

“Hey, kid.” Ratchet’s voice cracked. He rested one blue hand against a panel on his forearm. “Can I run a diagnostic on you?” Ratchet’s expression could only be described as _sheepish_. Drift was fascinated. He’d never seen Ratchet look like this before. 

“Should you really be working?” Drift teased, but he offered Ratchet his arm anyway. He remembered how this test worked. Under Ratchet’s arm panel was a cord with a jack that fit into the socket on the patient’s arm and fed him medical information about the mech he’d connected to. 

“It’s not…” Ratchet was uncharacteristically quiet. He fiddled with the cord, avoiding Drift’s gaze. Finally he took hold of the jack, looked up at Drift, and said clearly, “It’s not for professional reasons.” 

Drift laughed. “Hah, so you lied.” He flipped open the panel that protected his diagnostic sockets to indicate that he didn’t mind. 

“Lied?” Ratchet leaned forward, but didn’t jack in. 

“Back in Rodion, when I asked if you got off on this and you said no.” Drift smiled sunnily. 

Ratchet was alive. As far as Drift was concerned, Ratchet could have whatever he wanted, as long as it kept him nearby, where Drift could look over at him and see the proof that all his nightmares about Delphi were nothing more than bad dreams. 

Ratchet frowned. “I don’t get off on this. It’s a simple diagnostic test. Tells me fuel pump beats per minute, engine performance, heat levels, that sort of thing.” 

“Then if you aren’t doing it for work reasons, why do you want to do it? Not that I mind,” Drift added hastily. He put his hand over Ratchet’s and helped him guide his jack into Drift’s socket. 

It didn’t feel unpleasant. Drift felt only a slight presence of a foreign adornment, like when he was wearing a cloak or cape. When he first put it on, his sensors measured the weight of it, alerting him to its movements against his frame, informing him of its presence. Once he became accustomed to it, his mind told his sensors to disregard all information regarding the normal experience of having a cloak on. The jack in his socket felt much the same. It was just a gentle touch, with the added appeal of knowing that the touch belonged to Ratchet. 

“Um.” Ratchet seemed at a loss for words. Drift watched in fascination as Ratchet chewed his bottom lip. Finally, Ratchet managed to mutter, “It tells me I was just having bad dreams.” 

“Bad dreams?” Drift felt as though Ratchet had read his mind. 

“That I didn’t save you.” Ratchet seemed to rally. His gaze was intense. “Bad dreams were keeping me awake, so I came here to prove to myself that those dreams are just nonsense my brain cooked up. According to this test, you’re alive and recovering, and I don’t need to dwell on imaginary garbage where you died on Delphi.” He glowered. “I don’t want to hear any chirping out of you.” 

“I dreamed I got to the roof thirty seconds later,” Drift blurted. 

Ratchet stared at him. Drift stared back, feeling shy. He didn’t need to explain the significant of thirty seconds. It was clear from the way Ratchet’s faceplates heated up that Ratchet was well aware of what he meant. 


	3. I'm Never Going To Let This Go

Chapter Three: I’m Never Going To Let This Go 

“Do you,” Ratchet said. His voice trailed off before he could finish the sentence. He pressed his lips together and tried again. “Do you want to run a test on me?” He gestured with his opposite arm. 

“I don’t have the equipment,” Drift admitted, wishing he did. Was it standard? Had he lost it in his misspent youth? He thought only medics routinely had that equipment. 

“I’ve got a portable link with a universal connector, if you’ve got an open slot?” 

Drift blinked. “Yeah, I have lots of those.” He opened his opposite forearm, offering Ratchet a series of open slots. 

Ratchet reached into the storage unit on his hip and withdrew a small cable. Drift recognized the universal connector on one end and the jack on the other. Ratchet gently slid the connector into the first open slot. This didn’t feel quite as nice as when Ratchet had joined his diagnostic cable to Drift’s forearm. The second cable felt boring and businesslike, just like connecting any other piece of equipment. 

“You’ll need a simple program to ping my systems, receive the data, and interpret it as numbers and charts,” Ratchet said, all professional now. 

“Okay,” Drift agreed. 

“I’ve got a module in my office,” Ratchet said, and then he hesitated. His professional demeanor dropped. He looked sadly at the cord connecting his arm to Drift’s, and Drift knew what he meant: in order to go get it, they’d have to unhook. It would only be for a few moments, but Drift realized that he didn’t want Ratchet to disconnect, and Ratchet didn’t seem all that keen on it either. Drift’s emotion must have been visible on his face, because Ratchet bit his lip and added, “Or you could download it wirelessly from me.” 

“Sure.” Drift wasn’t afraid. Casual wireless downloads could transmit all kinds of malware and glitches, but Drift knew Ratchet would never try to give him such things on purpose, nor was a medical professional like Ratchet likely to transmit a tainted program by accident. Drift trusted him implicitly. “Firewalls down.” 

“Okay.” Ratchet seemed nervous, which put Drift on edge. It wasn’t like Ratchet to be anxious about minor proceedures. Or major ones. “Here it comes.” 

Drift leaned closer. Silly, really. They were easily in close enough proximity for a mech-to-mech wireless upload and download. They didn’t need physical contact. 

But Ratchet leaned towards Drift as well, and their foreheads touched. 

Drift felt the program finish downloading. “I’ve got one file,” Drift said, and read the sequence of numbers and letters. 

“That’s it. Put your firewalls back up and run it.” 

“Okay.” Drift felt it installing with a quiet hum. The file was small, and the installation was swift. “I’ve got a tiny display over my vision.” 

“Do you know how to deactivate it?” 

Drift checked. “Yeah.” He practiced turning it on and off just to make sure he could do it. He decided to leave it on for a bit. 

“Now I don’t want you trying to diagnose other people. You don’t have the training. This is just for…” Ratchet coughed static. “Personal use.” 

Drift had no intention of passing himself off as a field medic. He already knew that he had no talent in that regard. He was much better at taking people apart than he was at putting them back together again. “Okay.” 

“Ready, then?” Ratchet picked up the jack at the end of the cable that was now docked in Drift’s arm. Drift realized he could feel the sensation of Ratchet’s fingers on the jack. Ratchet brought the jack towards his arm, but Drift stopped him. Carefully, Drift took the jack in his own hand. Ratchet relinquished it in favour of flipping back the covering over his diagnostic ports. 

Drift was not used to seeing Ratchet as a patient. Ratchet’s ports were dull silver, clean but not polished. Drift didn’t care. He thought they were beautiful. 

He moved the jack in his fingers towards the first open port and felt a rush of heat to his face and a funny fluttering in his fuel tank. 

What was wrong with him? He wasn’t the kind of person to be obsessed with interfacing. Was he thinking about jacking something _else_ into Ratchet? 

The fluttering sensation became queasiness. His hide crawled. He didn’t want potentially uncomfortable interfacing thoughts getting in the way of…whatever this was. 

Ratchet was going to make fun of him for making such a big deal out of a simple diagnostic procedure. Drift shot Ratchet a hard glare, only to realize that Ratchet’s optics were fixated on the jack in Drift’s fingers, and Ratchet’s fans were rotating as though to dissipate the heat in his face. 

Drift took a deep breath and carefully eased the jack into Ratchet’s port. 

An instant later, the display in his head blossomed with information. Ratchet’s fuel pump rate. Ratchet’s engine performance. Ratchet’s frame, alive and well next to him. 

And something else. 

Drift could feel… 

He didn’t have words for this sensation. It was like seeing an aura, except he was feeling it instead. It was as though something small had taken up residence in his spark casing—the echo of a presence that overlapped his own. It didn’t feel like an invasion. It felt like a _layering_. That his spark and this echo of Ratchet’s spark could co exist without crowding one another. 

It felt like Ratchet was entering into his soul. 

Drift liked it. 

“Hello,” Drift murmured in welcome. He realized he probably looked like an idiot to someone who ran this diagnostic on all kinds of people multiple times a day. 

“How does it feel?” Ratchet prompted. His hands closed on Drift’s. 

“If I tell you, you’re going to smack me.” 

Ratchet chuckled. “If I give you a free pass for religious mumbo-jumbo for the next two minutes, will you tell me?” 

“ _Fine_. It feels like I can feel your aura interlapping with mine.” 

“I don’t know what that means.” 

Drift bristled, but Ratchet’s tone was calm and steady, not mocking, not provoking. Ratchet did not follow up with his customary sarcasm. Instead he waited, as if hoping Drift might explain. 

Drift sighed. “It’s like I can feel your… _presence_.” He put his hands to his chest, over his spark casing. “In here.” 

Ratchet smiled. “Yeah. That’s how it feels to me too.” 

Drift felt surprised. He wasn’t sure why. Just because Ratchet didn’t view the experience as spiritual in any way didn’t mean he didn’t _feel_ it. He probably had his own lens with which to view it and understand it. Something about neurotransmitters and electrical impulses and making his processor interpret data from systems other than his own. 

“Do you like it?” Ratchet asked gently. 

Drift felt his face flush again. He wanted to bury his face in Ratchet’s neck where Ratchet couldn’t see him, but he made himself face the challenge and nod in the affirmative. “It feels good.” 

Ratchet relaxed. Drift hadn’t realized he’d been holding tension in his frame. Or maybe it was just because _tense_ felt like _normal Ratchet_. This relaxed Ratchet was new and strange. 

“It must just feel like business as usual to you,” Drift said. “I mean, how many of these diagnostics do you run every day?” 

Drift was being silly. It was a big deal to him because the sensation was new. To Ratchet it would just be… 

“It feels like you,” Ratchet said abruptly. He paused, biting his lip again. Drift didn’t remember seeing Ratchet doing that very often before, and he’d made a bit of a study. Ratchet was doing it a lot tonight. 

“Everybody feels different,” Ratchet said slowly. “This…it doesn’t feel like any random patient. It feels like Drift of Rodion, _specifically_.” 

“And that’s good?” Drift wouldn’t usually hype himself up like that—he wasn’t Rodimus—but Ratchet had come to seek him out, so he hoped he could give what Ratchet wanted. 

“It’s everything I want right now,” Ratchet whispered. 

Drift felt that strange fluttering in his fuel tank again, along with a whirling sensation in his spark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> ...and tomorrow, a little epilogue from Ambulon.


	4. The Hardest of Pills to Swallow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Held off for a couple days on account of Secret Solenoid, which has blessed the fandom with some great art and stories.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this fic and wish you all the best in the coming New Year!
> 
> #

Chapter Four: The Hardest of Pills to Swallow 

Ambulon always felt a certain degree of anxiety when he was sent to a new posting. He worried about malicious bosses, resentful co-workers, and, of course, the Decepticon thing. His life to date had taught him that every one of his fears was absolutely founded in fact, and that workplace problems were not only possible but likely. That was the way his life worked. 

But the past day on the _Lost Light_ had been…not all that bad. 

Ratchet had laid out the process for Ambulon to be re-certified as a doctor. Ambulon was beginning to understand that he would never have to worry about Pharma bullying him ever again. Right now, Ambulon and First Aid were chatting with Hoist during Hoist’s duty shift, and it was actually not going too badly. 

It turned out that Hoist wasn’t resentful of having two more doctors aboard. Quite the opposite, in fact. Hoist was certified as a field medic, but his true love was engineering. He was glad to leave the medbay shifts to First Aid and Ambulon and spend more of his time tuning up the _Lost Light_ with Grapple. 

And if Ambulon ever worried about the Decepticon thing, all he had to do was stand next to the mech who called himself Drift, and everyone would forget all about Ambulon’s shady past. 

“So I should warn you about Drift.” Hoist paused, looked at Ambulon. “Deadlock.” 

Ambulon took a deep breath, bracing himself. 

“He hangs around the medbay _all the time_ ,” Hoist said. 

Ambulon blinked. That wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting to hear. 

“Drift and Ratchet _hate each other_ ,” Hoist explained. “They are _constantly_ fighting and Drift will _not_ leave him alone.” 

Ambulon cleared his throat. “You’re expecting First Aid and I to do something about one of the top ten worst Decepticons?” 

First Aid’s visor flickered. “Top ten?” 

“Yeah.” Ambulon began counting on his fingers. “You’ve got Megatron, obviously, and Tarn, also obviously, and in between them is Overlord, much to Tarn’s annoyance. Then you’ve got an even match between Sixshot and Deathsaurus…do you guys count Deathsaurus?” 

Hoist tilted his head. “What do you mean?” 

Ambulon flushed. Maybe this was a Decepticon thing. He pressed on hurriedly. “Some people don’t count Deathsaurus because he split off on his own like a million years ago, but other people say as long as he’s wearing a purple badge, he counts. Because, um, if you don’t count Deathsaurus, then Deadlock isn’t just in the top ten worst Decepticons, he’s in the top _five_.” 

“He’s not a Decepticon any more,” First Aid said, “and his name is _Drift_ now.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Hoist replied. He looked at Ambulon. “Look, I’ve got no problem with you. You’re an MTO, you had no choice, and the Decepticons victimized you as much as any Autobot. You had the guts to get out of the Decepticons and survive on your own and fight for what’s right, and so you and I are good. But Deadlock… There are a _lot_ of people on this ship who don’t like Deadlock. He leaves a trail of blood and death wherever he goes, and he hasn’t been an Autobot all that long. Seems to me he saw the tide turning and put himself on the winning side.” 

Ambulon didn’t know what to say. A lot of what Hoist was saying was true. Ambulon had to admit that yes, he was at least a little afraid of Deadlock, and no, he wasn’t sure he could trust a killer like that. 

_And I’ll always be the “good” ex-Con as long as Drift is around._

“Drift fought with the Wreckers,” First Aid pointed out. 

“Huh. Like the Wreckers are model citizens.” 

Ambulon conceded that point to Hoist, too. 

First Aid, though, wanted to defend the Wreckers’ honour, so as he talked to Hoist, Ambulon distracted himself by checking the monitors and diagnostic drones in the medbay. Normal…quiet…normal…quiet… _oh._

Ambulon expanded the image. The room looked peaceful, Ambulon would give it that, but… 

“So Ratchet and Drift hate each other, huh?” Ambulon mused as he watched the scene in the medbay. Ambulon had not imagined that the Autobot Chief Medical Officer would be capable of such a peaceful smile. 

“You’ll have to deal with it somehow,” Hoist said, turning to see what was on the screen. “I don’t…” His voice trailed off as he registered the image. 

Drift and Ratchet, sound asleep in the same berth in the private recovery room. Two diagnostic cables overlapped in loops atop a chamois tarp. To a room full of medics it was obvious what those cables signified. 

First Aid blurted, “How did Ratchet snag himself a Wrecker?” 

“Drift isn’t a Wrecker,” Hoist retorted. “He just fought with them for a while. A _short_ while.” 

“Uh huh,” Ambulon said, returning his attention to the image on screen. “It explains a lot, really. Why Drift dragged himself up to Delphi’s roof in the shape he was in. Why _Deadlock_ came to DJD Central, knowing he was on the List, when he could’ve stayed on the ship.” 

“That’s a hate frag,” Hoist argued. “Post traumatic stress for both of them after that close call.” 

First Aid put his hand on Ambulon’s shoulder. “Which of us gets Drift as our patient?” 

Ambulon understood what First Aid meant. Drift couldn’t stay on as Ratchet’s patient, not when their relationship had obviously become something else. And it wasn’t right to give the job to Hoist, who was only a field medic and clearly didn’t like Drift. “You do,” Ambulon said to First Aid. 

“You don’t want…” First Aid trailed off, unable to find proper words for _talk, one ex-Con to another_. 

“He’s got a habit of coming back from fights all sliced up.” Ambulon remembered that some of the blood following Deadlock wherever he went was his own. “I’m not all that excited about anxious Ratchet looking over my shoulder during repairs.” 

“Great,” First Aid groaned. “Lucky me.” 

“I mean, I wouldn’t want to take away your chance to fix an almost-Wrecker.” Ambulon tried to hide his smile. 

“He bites,” Hoist said helpfully. “And hide the scalpels.” 


End file.
